


troubling mail

by oobiemcruby



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 04:22:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5483168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oobiemcruby/pseuds/oobiemcruby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You squint at Floundering Fucking Idiot down the hall.</p>
<p>How does that numbskull even function? You honestly think that every time you’ve ever been graced with his motherfucking presence he’s spent the entire time worrying about his stupid hair, flicking it this way and that, trying to give it the best possible arrangement for a selfie he’s sure to start taking, any shitting second now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	troubling mail

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fishy_Princess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fishy_Princess/gifts).



> happy holidays fishy_princess!! I hope you enjoy this :3

You squint at Floundering Fucking Idiot down the hall.

How does that numbskull even function? You honestly think that every time you’ve ever been graced with his motherfucking presence he’s spent the entire time worrying about his stupid hair, flicking it this way and that, trying to give it the best possible arrangement for a selfie he’s sure to start taking, any shitting second now.

Every time you have to talk to him, you lose a little bit more faith in trollkind – not that you ever had much to begin with – given how self-involved you’ve seen that he is. Unfortunately, talking to him has become unavoidable, given that the mailing syndicate, the unreliable piece of shit system that it is, insists on giving you his mail, along with your own. You’re sure that whoever is in charge of mailing to your sector has a great big fucking laugh at your expense, knowing that you are forced to socialise with your fellow neighbours, especially now, as you had decided before you moved to this hellhole that socialising with other trolls gets you _nothing_. Except the requisite amount of pain that stems from knowing your fellow troll. Every day, you’ve questioned your decision to move here, which was more because Sollux insisted it was close to him and the other trolls, and not for any masochistic reasoning on your part.

Checking your mailing chute, and you see, _yet a-fucking-gain_ they’ve fucked up majorly in their menial life accomplishment of fucking reading where the mail needs to go. You idly wonder, for half a moment, if maybe Terezi really _is_ in charge of the delivering the post, and decide, yet again, that she would not be so incapable of such a simple fucking job.

Again, you squint down the hall at Hair Arranger Extraordinaire and consider lighting his mail on fire, as it’s sure to be self-gratifying in its insipidness. The pain you endure in order to not come across as too much of an asshole is way too fucking much for you to deal with.

Stomping down the hall, which is completely fucking warranted in your humble fucking opinion, thank you very fucking much, you glare what is sure to be hole in his stupid fucking wavy horns as you approach His Dramatic Majesty, and shove his mail in his god damn hands.

You can’t hold yourself back once you reach him. “This is your god damn fault for having the _audacity_ for deciding to live in this building.”   
He blinks slowly at you, like he’s unsure why you just spat those words at him. “What crawled up your expelling chute and died?”

“The fact that the mailing distributers seem completely incapable of sending your mail to you, and instead send it to my unfortunate soul,” you splutter, flicking the mail up and down, as he seems completely incapable of taking it. “Don’t you want to read woefully uninformed trolls performing what is sure to be embarrassing blunders to the Alternian language at large by dedicating too many fucking words to your facial structure?” You say this, as you can see a hand-crafted pink envelope dedicated to “Eri”, and you swear you’ve seen him on the Internet somewhere, maybe in one of those viral videos no troll can seem to help watching.

All he seems to be capable of doing is raising an imperious eyebrow at you, so you decide to fume up at him. Fuck this shit, you’re out.

Storming off doesn’t feel as good as you thought it would.

***

Next time it happens, you are sorely tempted to open it, just to see what’s so important for him to get the sheer amount of mail that he does. Is he only friends with hermits? It’s not like it’s hard to get a grubtop and hook it up to the TrollCloud.

The only thing stopping you is the threat of death you’re sure that opening it would incur. No shitty fan mail is worth that.

You go and shove it all under his door, making sure to squish some of the corners over, for the _inconvenience_.

***

The thumping at your door wakes you just after you crawled your sorry shame globes into your recuperacoon at some frankly ridiculous daylight hour, fitting right in with your violent dreams that you’re unsure if it’s still a part of your dream or not.

Still dripping with slime, you throw open the door, ready to spill some blood on the floor for someone fucking _daring_ to wake you up right now. 

Floppy Haired Fucker From Down The Hall looks about as happy as you do right now.

You ground out a snarl, unsurprised that it seems to do nothing positive about his what seems to be a truly murderous mood. “ _What_?”

“Do you take classes in being an inconsiderate piece of shit? Or do you enjoy stealin’ my mail?” he squawks, indignant as his floppy hair allows.

Your scowl turns darker, and your body starts inconveniently rumbling without your permission. “Why would I want to read your mail which is sure to be full of self-gratifying statements that will fuel the growth of your abnormally large nugbone?”

He flushes an unfortunate shade of purple, with his fins fanning out. You shouldn’t be angering a royal blood like you are, but it’s never been said that you had a self-preserving bone in your exoskeleton. “It’s private fuckin’ messages that you have no business readin’. So give my mail back and I won’t have to do somethin’ that you’re gonna regret later.”

You hate nothing more than self-important high bloods who enjoy throwing their mostly negligible weight around with trolls they deem much farther down the food chain than they are. You step into his personal space, and he pushes his chin up in a manner which clearly says he won’t be backing down.

“Regrets? Who said anything about fucking regrets, bulgelicker?”

With that, he looks down, as if he just realised how underdressed you are for the general situation, and the flush reaches the tips of his fins. 

“’Bulgelicker’ is a piss-weak insult there, shit fucker.”

You fail at supressing a snort. “I don’t think you’ll be winning any awards for your way around words, you disappointment to Alternia.”

“Fine.” He drops your gaze and walks back down the hall, attempting a saunter and kind of failing at the attempt. “Come and talk to me when I’m not such a disappointment to Alternia.”

Well.


End file.
